The sunny summer passed away; autumn came and brightened the hills and valleys for a little time, then was buried beneath its own dead leaves; and now winter has brought its snow and cold winds to Frankie’s home. Frankie loves the winter. The keen winds only make his eyes brighter and cheeks rosier. Then he has such a nice sled, and there are such famous hills for coasting! To be sure, it mars his pleasure to think of Aleck, who is so lame and weak that he has to stay in the house all the time, but he is a merry-hearted little fellow, and dearly loves to go flying down the long hill on his swift-going sled. “I say it’s too bad, Aleck! Can’t you _ever_ ride down hill?” Frankie’s bright face looked troubled. He was buttoning his warm overcoat, to go out for a morning ride. Aleck’s patient face for a moment wore a sad, weary look, then, looking up cheerfully, he said, “Oh, I dinna mind, Frankie,--not much. You ken I’m used to staying i’ the house. Then this window is sae sunny, and Dickie sings most a’ the time, and the flowers are sae bonny.” “Well, _I_ get awful tired when I have to stay in. It’s just like having Sunday every day.” Frankie gave his fur cap an energetic pull over his eyes, and was starting off with a merry whistle, but his mother, who had been a quiet listener to the conversation, said, “Wait a moment, Frankie, I want to talk to you. Why is it that you do not like Sunday? Don’t you like to give _one_ day to God for all the six working and playing days He gives you?” “I want to go, mamma. Oh, dear, the boys’ll be gone,” was the impatient reply, as he twisted the knob of the half-opened door. “Can’t I go, mamma?” Mrs. Western said nothing, and, unheeding her reproachful look, he ran off, drawing his sled after him. It was a clear, crisp, sparkling winter morning. Coasting never was better, and Joe and Will were as merry as ever, but Frankie did not enjoy it. “What’s the matter, Frank?” asked Joe, seeing his sorrowful expression. “Fingers cold?” “No,” said Frankie, “but I am going home,” and without a word of explanation he ran off. Rushing into the sitting-room, his eyes filled with tears, he put his arms around his mother’s neck and said, “O mamma, I am sorry.” “So am I, darling,” said his mother, kissing the tearful face. “Sit down here by me and we will talk a little about the Sabbath, and see why it is my little boy dislikes it so much.” “I would like it, mamma, only it is so long. I don’t like to keep so still, and I get so sleepy in church, and I keep thinking about my sled and the fun I could have if it wasn’t Sunday.” He paused, quite satisfied that he had made a good case for himself, and his mother, taking up her sewing, told him, in her low, calm tones, the following story.